The Truth About Lord Stoneville (3 page)

Surely she was bluffing. She hated Desmond as much as the rest of them.

Still, she’d never been the bluffing sort. “I suppose you’ve chosen our mates for us, too,” Oliver said bitterly.

“No. I leave that to you. But you will not settle down unless I force your hand; I have indulged you all too long. It is time you do your part for the family, which means providing the next generation to carry on my legacy.”

Celia dropped heavily into her seat. “It’s not as if Minerva and I can just pick a husband at whim. A man has to propose marriage. What if no one does?”

Gran rolled her eyes. “You’re both lovely ladies who turn heads wherever you go. If you, Celia, would stop trouncing your brothers’ friends in shooting matches, one of them would probably offer for you in a trice. And if Minerva would stop writing those ghastly Gothic novels—”

“I won’t do that,” Minerva protested.

“At least take a pen name. I don’t see
why
you must go about acknowledging the fact that you are the author of such disreputable stories, scandalizing everyone you meet.”

Her gaze shifted to Jarret and Gabe. “As for you two, you could actually attend a ball occasionally. Jarret, you do not
have
to spend every night in the gaming hells, and Gabe . . .” She let out a weary sigh. “If you would only stop racing any fool who challenges you, you might have the time to seek out a bride. You lads are perfectly capable of enticing respectable women to marry you. You never seem to have trouble coaxing whores and actresses into your beds.”

“Oh, God,” Gabe muttered, his ears turning pink. It was one thing to bed a whore and quite another to have one’s grandmother remark upon it.

She fixed Oliver with a steady look. “And we all know that your brother has a considerable advantage: his title.”

“And the trade of title for money ended so well for our parents,” Oliver said sarcastically. “I can see why you’re eager for me to repeat the transaction.”

When pain slashed over her face, he ignored the twinge of guilt in his chest. If she meant to force them into this, then she’d have to accept the consequences.

His mother’s last words to him clamored in his brain.
You’re a disgrace to this family . . . .

A chill coursed down his spine. Abruptly he walked to the door and opened it. “May I have a private word with you in the hall, Gran?”

One gray brow flicked upward. “If you wish.”

As soon as they were away from the others, Oliver faced her down. “Inflicting me as a husband on some hapless woman won’t change anything.”

“Are you sure?” Gran met his gaze steadily, her blue eyes softening. “You are better than this aimless life you lead, Oliver.”

God, if she only knew. “This is what I am. It’s time you accepted it. Mother did.”

She paled. “I know you do not like to speak of what happened that day—”

“I don’t,” he cut in. “And I won’t.” Not to her or anyone.

“You will not speak of it because you blame me for it.”

“That’s not true, blast it!” He blamed himself alone. If only he’d ridden after Mother as soon as she’d gone missing. If only he’d pressed Gran harder. If only, if only, if only . . .

“I don’t blame you for anything in the past. But I
will
blame you for this.”

“Surely even you can see that something must be done.”

“Why? Minerva and Celia will marry eventually, and Gabe and Jarrett are just sowing their wild oats. Given time, they’ll settle down.”

“
You
have not.”

“That’s different.”

“Why is it different?”

“Why are you suddenly so determined to push this matter of our marrying?”

“Answer my question, and I will answer yours.”

So that’s what she wanted—to force him into a confession of his sins. Well, she was never getting that from him.

“Someday, Oliver,” she went on when he remained silent, “you will have to talk about what happened that day, if only so you can put it behind you.”

“I
have
put it behind me.” Turning on his heel, he strode for the door.

As he jerked it open, she called out, “I am not changing my mind about the inheritance or the rest of it. Marry or lose everything.”

When he froze with his hand on the knob, she came up to stand in the doorway and sweep her gaze over his siblings inside the room. “I am tired of hearing you children called the Hellions of Halstead Hall in the scandalsheets. Of reading that my youngest granddaughter has once again horrified society by appearing at some shooting match.” She leveled a glance on Gabe. “Or that my grandson nearly lost his life in a race. This will end now.”

“What if we agree to behave more discreetly in the future?” Oliver snapped.

“Not good enough. Perhaps if you five have someone else depending on you—a spouse and children—you will finally learn the value of what you have.”

“Damn it, Gran—”

“Stop cursing at me, Oliver. This is the end of the discussion. Mr. Bogg will explain the particulars of my demands and you may ask
him
your questions. I must attend a meeting at the brewery.”

She walked off down the hall, her cane briskly tapping along.

The minute Oliver reentered the room, his siblings turned to Mr. Bogg. “She doesn’t mean it, does she?” said one. “How could she do this?” said another. “You must talk her out of it,” said a third.

Bogg sat back in the antique chair, which creaked in protest. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. After Lord Gabriel’s injury, she became determined not to watch her grandchildren die before they do their duty to the family.”

“You see what you’ve done, Gabe?” Celia cried. “You ruined everything!”

“It’s not about Gabe,” Oliver said wearily. “It’s about me. She doesn’t want to lose the title and position that she fought so hard to gain for her family. She means to make sure one of us chaps carries it on.”

“Then why force me and Celia into it?” Minerva asked.

“Forgive me, your lordship,” Bogg put in, “but you’re wrong. She worries about all of you. She wants to make sure you’re well settled before she dies.”

Oliver’s head snapped around. “Dies? Is Gran ill?” That possibility tied his insides into a knot. “Is there something she’s not telling us?” It would explain the suddenness of her scheme.

Bogg paused before shaking his head. “She’s merely tired of waiting for you five to provide her with great-grandchildren.”

Now
that
Oliver could easily believe.

Bogg cleared his throat. “Have you any more questions?”

“Just one,” Oliver said. “Did she really not stipulate
whom
we could marry?” He had an idea how to thwart her mad scheme.

“No stipulations on that score. But there are other rules.”

Oliver listened as the man detailed those, one of which was that they must marry in England and not engage in a “havey-cavey Gretna Green elopement.” Apparently she worried about such a marriage being disputed in court. Fortunately, none of what Bogg said would affect the plan forming in his mind.

After Bogg finished his duty and left them to their misery, Minerva appealed to Oliver. “You must convince Gran that this is insane. I don’t see why I should put up with a husband when I’m perfectly content with my life as it is.”

“I’m no more eager to marry than you are, Minerva,” Jarret growled. “Next thing you know, she’ll have me running the bloody brewery. And that is the last thing I wish to do.”

“I say we move in here and show her that we don’t need her money,” Celia exclaimed. “Do as she says, run the estate together—”

“Yes, because you know so much about running an estate,” Gabe shot back.

“Celia has a point, though,” Minerva put in. “If we show her we can manage perfectly well on our own, she might rethink her plans. Besides, if we’re going to end up here eventually anyway, we should start getting used to it.”

“God help us.” Jarret shot Oliver a hard look. “You don’t want us moving in here, do you?”

Oliver sighed. “I’d just as soon never see the place again. Unfortunately, Celia’s idea is sound. If we live here, we’ll call Gran’s bluff. We can invite her to visit, let her see what fruit her nonsense will bear if she goes through with it.”

He struggled to contain his revulsion at the thought of living at Halstead Hall again. But it would only last until he could bring his plan to fruition; then life could go back to normal.

“In the meantime, I have another trick up my sleeve,” he went on. “It’s risky, but it might force Gran’s hand. She hasn’t fully thought this through, and I mean to make her realize that. I still have money left from the sale of that last property, and here’s what I propose. . . .”

Chapter Two

“For heaven’s sake, Freddy, keep up,” Maria Butterfield muttered at her spindly cousin as she strode down the muddy street. The clerk ahead of them was setting a rather brisk pace. Bad enough that they were forced to endure this miserable English weather; if they lost their quarry, they’d have no way to find Nathan Hyatt. She wasn’t about to risk that after traveling all the way from Dartmouth, Massachusetts, to retrieve her fiancé.

“Are you sure that fellow’s satchel belongs to Nathan?” Freddy wheezed.

“It has lettering on both sides, just like the one I had specially made for him. And the man carrying it was in the same area as London Maritime, where Nathan was last seen three months ago. I need only get a closer look at it to be sure.”

“How’re you supposed to do that? And don’t think I’ll do it—I’m not tangling with some English devil just at your say-so.”

“I thought you were wearing that sword to protect me.”

Freddy had donned Father’s old sword and scabbard every day since they’d arrived in London. It drew attention wherever they went; no one carried a sword these days.

“It’s to protect
me,
” Freddy countered. “I hear tell that they duel for fun here. I didn’t come all this way just to see my favorite sword nicked in a fight.”

She snorted. “You came because your older brothers had families to look after, and Aunt Rose would have boxed your ears if you hadn’t.” When Freddy colored, she softened her tone. “Besides, there’s no need for any dueling. We’ll convince the fellow to let us look at the satchel peaceably—after we see where he’s going. I’m hoping he leads us to Nathan.”

“
I’m
hoping he leads us to a pie shop. It’s been nigh on three hours since we ate.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. “Didn’t know you meant to starve me.”

She sighed. Freddy lived in a perpetual state of starvation. Aunt Rose said that all young men of twenty-one ate like bulls, but right now, Maria would rather they ate like chickens and fought like bulls. Given how Freddy was eating up their funds, he was proving a rather costly protector.

How she wished Nathan had stayed in America, where he belonged. How she wished Papa hadn’t died . . .

Grief stabbed her as she stepped over an ice-laced puddle. She still couldn’t believe it. Papa hadn’t been his usual robust self in some time, but she hadn’t expected him to die in his office of sudden heart failure at age sixty-five.

A disturbing thought occurred to her. If Nathan hadn’t received her most recent letters, then he didn’t even know Papa was dead. He didn’t know he was now sole owner of New Bedford Ships, assuming he married her as planned.

And what if he
didn’t
marry her? Was that why she hadn’t heard from him in months? Had he taken his chance to escape their betrothal?

Any man would have tired of Papa’s incessant demands that Nathan prove himself worthy of running the company before he married the woman who would inherit half of it. Those demands had sent Nathan to England to negotiate a lucrative sale of clipper ships to London Maritime. Maybe once he’d arrived here, he’d reconsidered their engagement.

Tears welled in her eyes. No, he wouldn’t do that. He was an honorable man. Their relationship might be less passionate than that of some betrothed couples, but surely he cared for her, as she did for him. Something dreadful must have happened—he would never shirk his responsibilities. She had to find him. She couldn’t lose both him
and
Papa.

Yet that satchel in another man’s hands didn’t bode well for Nathan’s being all right. Nathan would never have given it up. The man had to have stolen it.

Her heart pounded in time to her quickening steps. Nathan was probably lying dead in some field, done in by the treacherous English. And if he were . . .

She couldn’t think of that right now or she’d surely shatter.

“Mopsy—” Freddy began in an undertone.

“Don’t call me that. We’re not children anymore.” Besides, Nathan thought it unbecoming to a lady. He was particular about such things, having been raised in Baltimore high society before moving to tiny Dartmouth six years ago to partner with Papa.

“Sorry, Mop— . . . Maria,” Freddy mumbled. “I keep forgetting.” He edged closer. “But I’m thinking we shouldn’t stay out past dark. This part of town doesn’t seem very nice. And those ladies up there look a little . . . well . . . naked.”

She’d been so focused on not losing the man ahead that she hadn’t noticed their surroundings. As she glanced about, her heart faltered. Scantily dressed women hung out of the windows above them, their bosoms spilling out of their bodices. They had to be freezing, but clearly that took second place to their purpose.

Memories of fetching Papa from such places when no one else could go after him made her stiffen.

“See here, sir,” one of them called to Freddy, her breath a puff of mist, “I got a tuzzy-muzzy that’ll bring you to a cockstand right quick.”

“You can sample my quim for only half a quid, love,” added another.

Maria didn’t understand their words, but judging from the blushes darkening Freddy’s freckled cheeks, they were rather . . . salacious.

“Let’s go back to the lodging house,” Freddy said.

“Not yet. Our quarry is stopping up ahead, and all we have to do is get a look at that satchel. We might not have another chance.”

They hung back until the man entered the building. Then they approached the front. Raucous laughter spilled into the street, along with the gay tunes of a fiddle playing a jig. Through the open door, she could see couples engaged in dancing and . . . naughty behavior.

While the lamplighters trudged by with their torches, Freddy’s brown eyes studied the house. “You can’t go in there. It’s no place for respectable women.”

“I can see that.” She shivered in her black redingote as a cold gust of wind hit her. “It appears to be a brothel.”

“Mopsy!” His cheeks shone as red as his wildly disordered hair. “You’re not supposed to talk about such things.”

“Why? We both know Papa went to one every Saturday night.” She turned to him. “Why don’t
you
enter? They won’t notice another man in there. Just find the satchel, and see if it’s Nathan’s.”

“And if it is? Then what?”

“Then lure the man out here so I can speak to him. Tell him that his mother is outside, and she’ll come in if he doesn’t come out. No young man wants that.”

Freddy looked skeptical, and she sighed. “If you do as I say, I’ll buy you as many pies as you want.”

“All right.” Drawing his sword, he handed it to her. “You’d best hold on to this. You shouldn’t be standing on the street without protection.”

That he’d give up his precious sword for even a moment touched her. “Thank you.” She gave him a push. “Now go find out if that satchel is Nathan’s.”

With a heavy sigh, Freddy trudged up the steps. Trying not to look conspicuous, she slid into the shadows and stifled a laugh as he hesitated before going in. Any other male Freddy’s age would be dying to enter a brothel, but as usual, all he could think about was food. Yet no matter what he stuffed in his mouth, he stayed thin as a toothpick. Meanwhile, if she so much as added sugar to her tea for a week, she started popping out of her stays. It wasn’t fair.

But then, life generally wasn’t fair for women. If she’d been a man,
she
would have inherited Papa’s company. He would never have brought in an outsider.

Not that she didn’t like Nathan. He was clever and quite handsome, the sort of husband most women would walk over coals to catch. And she had little chance of finding another good husband in Dartmouth. It was a small fishing town with only a handful of educated unmarried men, and Papa’s colorful background made her ineligible to wed a true gentleman.

She sometimes wondered if Nathan would even have considered her as his wife if not for her connection to New Bedford Ships.

No, that wasn’t fair. He’d always been perfectly lovely to her. It wasn’t
his
fault that their few kisses had been underwhelming—she must have done something wrong. Or expected too much from them.

Maybe Papa was right. Maybe she
did
read too many of those Gothic novels by Minerva Sharpe. After all, no man could be as dashing as the Viscount Churchgrove, or as heroic as the Duke of Wolfplain. Or even as fascinating as the villainous Marquess of Rockton.

She scowled. How could she think of Rockton at such a time? Bad enough that she’d been secretly pleased when he’d escaped justice at the end of the novel. The intrusion of such a wicked villain in her thoughts when she should be thinking only of Nathan was most alarming.

Maybe she
wasn’t
a normal woman. She was certainly more outspoken and opinionated than most women she met. And she did so love reading about murder and mayhem. Papa had called it unnatural.

A sigh escaped her. It was true that other ladies didn’t seem to listen with avid interest to men’s tales of fighting in the Revolution, or pore eagerly over every dark crime reported in the newspaper. They didn’t pray to solve an enigmatical murder.

A sudden cry of “Stop! Thief! Stop him!” from inside the house jerked her up short. Oh no, surely Freddy had not . . . he wouldn’t have . . .

But of course he would have. Freddy didn’t think.

Racing up the steps with sword in hand, she hurtled inside just in time to see a man block Freddy’s path on a staircase as Freddy clasped the satchel to his chest like a shield.

“We’ve got you now, thief,” said the man.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach.

Several steps above Freddy stood their quarry, red-faced and half-dressed, and behind him other men crowded around the stairs to see what was happening. Meanwhile, women in various stages of undress emerged into the hall.

“Polly, go fetch the constable,” the man called to one of the women.

Oh no! This was a disaster!

The two men closed in on Freddy, with him stammering that he just “wanted a look at it, is all.”

Hefting Freddy’s sword, she brandished it at the nearest fellow. “Let him go! Or I swear I’ll spit you like an orange!”

To her right, a voice drawled, “An
orange
? That’s your dire threat, my dear?”

Panic seized her as she caught sight of the tall man who’d emerged from the front room. He wore no coat, waistcoat, or cravat and his shirt was opened down to the middle of his chest, but his commanding air said he would be in control of any situation, regardless of his attire. And he stood much too close.

“Stay back!” She swung the sword at him, praying she could actually use the curst thing. She hadn’t realized that swords were so heavy. “I merely want my cousin, sir, and then we’ll leave.”

“Her ‘cousin’ tried to steal my satchel, my lord,” cried their quarry.

My lord?
Her pulse faltered. The tall fellow didn’t
look
like the elegant men she’d imagined from Miss Sharpe’s novels, though he did seem to possess their arrogance. But his skin was darker than she would expect, and his eyes bore a deadly glint that shot a chill down her spine. If he was a lord, then she and Freddy were in even bigger trouble.

“You take the woman, Lord Stoneville,” said the other fellow, “and we’ll seize the man. We’ll hold the thieves until the constable arrives.”

“We’re not thieves!” She swung the sword between the two men, her arm aching from its weight as she glared at the man at the top of the stairs. “You’re the thief, sir. That satchel belongs to my fiancé. Doesn’t it, Freddy?”

“I’m not sure,” Freddy squeaked. “I had to bring it into the hall to get a look at it. Then this fellow started shouting, and I didn’t know what to do but run.”

“A likely tale,” their quarry sneered.

“I tell you what, Tate,” Lord Stoneville said, “if Miss . . .”

When he arched one raven eyebrow at her, she answered without thinking, “Butterfield. Maria Butterfield.”

“If Miss Butterfield will hand me the sword, I promise to arbitrate this little dispute to everyone’s satisfaction.”

As if she could trust a half-dressed lord in a brothel to arbitrate anything fairly. The English lords in books fell into two categories—honorable gentlemen and debauched villains. This man seemed more of the villain variety, and she wasn’t fool enough to put herself into that sort of man’s power.

“I have a better plan.” With her heart thundering in her chest, she darted forward to thrust the point of the sword at Lord Stoneville’s neck. “Either you tell them to let my cousin go, or you’ll be wearing this sword in your throat.”

He didn’t even flinch. An unholy amusement lit his face as he closed his hand around the blade. “There’s no chance of that, my dear.”

She froze, afraid to move for fear of slicing his fingers.

“Listen well, Miss Butterfield,” he went on in a voice of frightening calm. “You’re already guilty of attempted theft, not to mention assaulting a peer. Both crimes are punishable by hanging. I’m willing to be reasonable about the assault, but only if you release the sword. In exchange, I’ll let you argue for yourself and your ‘cousin’ concerning the theft.” He said the word “cousin” with skeptical sarcasm. “We’ll sort this out, and if I’m satisfied you’re blameless of theft, you and your companion will be free to go. Understand?”